


the circle

by younglegends



Series: i guess we'll just have to adjust [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 02:45:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3834109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/younglegends/pseuds/younglegends
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Edward Elric wakes up, the sun is in his eyes. His brother is leant over him, one hand on his shoulder.</p><p>“Wake up, brother,” says Al. “We’re going to be late.”</p><p>Or: high school 'verse where the sun's shining, there's work to be done and days to be lived, and something about the student council presidency election doesn't seem right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the circle

**Author's Note:**

> i've taken liberties, aside from the fact that everyone's magically a modern high school student all of a sudden. al is 15 and ed & his group are 16 years old; not sure how old the homunculi are meant to be in canon but here they're the same age (besides selim), and also nobody questions why they just so happen to be named after the seven deadly sins. 
> 
> by "alternate universe" i mean it to the most literal possible definition possible: a universe that exists in conjunction to the story we know, and sometimes the line blurs between the two. sometimes the other makes itself known in the moment before taking a breath, in the familiarity of a gaze that should belong to a stranger, in the half-forgotten dreams that only surface in sleep. and it's not better, or worse; it's not less, or more—it just is. 
> 
> sorry about the cliche lyric use but [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9zdNdjF-htY)'s the only one that runs through my head every time i think about this 'verse, even back when i first started writing this last summer in a rush (and then proceeded to leave it untouched until now). 
> 
> this is less a story with a clearly defined plotline than a collection of glimpses into a universe that strings itself together. what i like about the multiverse, after all, is choice. theoretically i'm going to add a lot to this series but i am me and writing is hard.
> 
> warnings for swearing, and mentions of alcohol/underage drinking. man, these are a lotta notes

When Edward Elric wakes up, the sun is in his eyes. His brother is leant over him, one hand on his shoulder.

“Wake up, brother,” says Al. “We’re going to be late.”

It’s late April, and the sudden heat wave has brought with it a laziness, thick honeyed haze in the air dragging him through the days like a fly caught in amber. Ed groans into the palm of his hand, flops over. Misjudges the distance and rolls off the bed. The prospect of facing the day doesn’t seem any more appealing from the ground; maybe he can crawl under the bed, catch some more sleep if he just pretends to be one with the floor.

“C’mon, Ed. We’ve got that history test first thing, remember? Winry’s ready to go, and you know she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” Al’s head bobs back into view, this time extending his hand. Ed squints up at him. He takes it.

Granny’s breakfast stew is already cold by the time he gets downstairs, but he slurps it down anyways, ignoring her disapproving looks from the other side of the table. He stuffs a hard-boiled egg into his mouth, and it’s gone in two bites. A second later and he’s out the door, calling, “See ya, Granny,” loud enough to cover her annoyed shout, _you forgot to drink the milk again, good-for-nothing midget brat!_

Al and Winry are halfway down the road when Ed catches up, and Winry turns to shoot him a look as he speeds up to match their strides. “Well, hey, look who decided to roll out of bed this morning,” she says, “thought you were knocked out or something, you slept right through your alarm. Like a rock.”

“With your stomach exposed, again,” Al adds helpfully. “You’ve got to stop doing that.”

“Must’ve been some dream,” sighs Winry, shaking her head.

Ed grumbles, shoulders his bag higher. He doesn’t need this kind of abuse so early in the morning. “Well, if it was, I don’t remember it.”

“Typical,” is what Winry says, and Ed starts to bristle, some comeback he hasn’t thought up yet ready on his tongue, but when she turns around she’s grinning, bright-eyed, corner of her mouth quirked up just so. She’s wearing a summer dress, something light, floaty. It’s spring. The sun is shining, the tops of the unlit streetlamps and the glassy windows of nearby store displays and the edges of her hair, cheek, skin all reflecting gold. Ed stops, mouth dry, something inexplicably caught in his throat, soft.

“Yeah, well,” he says eventually, intelligently, upon recovering. But it’s okay, because no one’s listening, anyway. Alphonse has just discovered a passing-by cat upon the side of the road.

\--

The metal shop classroom is sweltering with heat, despite all the open windows. Winry wipes sweat from her forehead with her arm. Her final project isn’t cooperating with her, though she’s certain she’s followed all her scribbled-out plans perfectly, and it’s the kind of frustration that digs in with teeth. The kind that settles in near the end of every school year, like an edge to her exhaustion. So close, but not close enough.

On her desk, her phone vibrates. She ignores it, but the distraction’s already there, _damn it_ , like a lit spark on the end of a fuse. In her annoyance she loosens a screw too far, and the whole panel falls off with a metallic clang against her desk. _Damn it._ Maybe if she just took the whole thing apart, took out all the pieces and started again from square one—

Her phone vibrates again. This time, it’s accompanied with a scrape of chair legs against the floor, as someone moves their stool closer towards her.

“Sounds like someone’s in need of you,” says Paninya, leaning close into Winry’s space and peering at the mess in her hands. “Careful, though, you know Mr. Garfiel’s cellphone policy—he reads all your texts and then starts getting way too personal about your problems—”

“It’s just Ed,” Winry bites out through gritted teeth, glaring at the offending metal panel lying on her desk. “He’s probably skipping again."

Paninya waggles her eyebrows suggestively. “Wow, that’s impressive, how you already know,” she says, and she looks like she wants to say more, eyeing the way Winry’s squeezing her wrench so hard it hurts, but she mercifully changes the subject. Naturally diverts the conversation into an easier flow, and Winry’s grateful. “Have you seen the posters for the election for next year’s student council president? That guy’s in the running again, what’s his name, the nerdy looking kid who’s been president for the last two years in a row—Selim or something. Y’know, the principal’s son? Apparently he’s some kind of honours kid, skipped three grades. What a teacher’s pet.”

“You just don’t like him because he refused to raise the track team’s budget,” Winry says. “When did you care so much about student council, anyway?"

“Oh, you know me,” says Paninya innocently, “always so concerned with the affairs and well-being of our school.” Winry gives her five seconds, but she caves in three. “Okay, okay, haven’t you seen the posters for the new guy? He just moved here but he’s put himself in the running, and he’s pretty cute.”

“Oh, no,” says Winry. Her grip on the wrench relaxes, just slightly. Maybe she got the measurements wrong—but she’s checked over and over again. Maybe it’s just the heat that’s getting to her.

“Oh, _yes,_ ” says Paninya, fanning herself with one of Winry’s blueprints. “I heard he moved here from a different country. I dunno, I think he might give that Selim kid a run for his money, and maybe when he makes president he’ll actually listen to me when I say we need some more funds. Where _is_ all that money going, anyway? I don’t see any new textbooks or computers at this school.” There’s a wicked gleam in her eye, and Winry can’t help but smile. “Or— _new uniforms_ , can you imagine?

“Yeah, maybe with them you guys’ll actually win state champs this year,” Winry jokes, and Paninya’s off again, something about how they were barely beat out by some other school that hadn’t even had the respect to shake their hands properly after the meet, _yeah, yeah, I know you’ve heard this all before._ Winry has, but she doesn’t mind. The talk has loosened up her nerves, cleared the waters. Allowed her to settle back into herself, and given her the composure to put down her wrench and pick up her phone at last.

_skipping nxt class can u cover for me pls_

Winry doesn’t even want to dignify that with a response, but then she scrolls down to the next message.

_THX also gl w ur project ur gonna rock it_

Winry shakes her head. Laughs, despite herself. A cool breeze picks up and enters through the window, lifting her hair from her shoulders, then setting it back down again, like a surprise.

 _I won’t be held responsible for the detention Mr. Mustang’s gonna give you,_ her fingers type, and then—sure and steady— _you’d be lost without me._

“Y’know, this doesn’t look that bad,” says Paninya. She’s studying the plans laid out on Winry’s desk, tapping her finger against the design. “Just, maybe you shouldn’t get caught up in it too much. Remember the bigger picture, what it’s supposed to be at the end.” She looks up, then, and flashes Winry a grin. “You can do it. Your hands can do it.”

“I know,” says Winry, and she surveys the pile of metal on her desk with a new eye. The _beautiful_ pile of metal, all drilled sheets and coiled springs and sanded edges, waiting to be remade. Waiting to be complete. Maybe all she needed was a break. Winry adjusts the protective goggles around her head, picks up her wrench, and gets back to work.

\--

The bell rings, long and loud and _goddamn_ annoying. “Put a sock in it, will ya,” Greed says, to nobody in particular. Mr. Miles’ll roast his ass for missing another history test, but it’s already third period and his hangover is still killing him, and he needs fresh air, not another stuffy classroom with fluorescent lighting burning his eyes out. It’s all too easy, slipping out the back exit near the gymnasium, and he slides his shades down over his eyes, scowls up at the sun. When the bell finally stops ringing he turns on his heel to survey the scene. The neat little gardens, carefully maintained and sectioned off by white fences. The litter-free walkways paved with cement, leading to the track field, grass trimmed and tidy. The hulking shape of the school, looming tall with the letters AMESTRIS HIGH stenciled above the doors, dwarfing him in its shadow. Blessed silence, at long last.

All so goddamn boring.

His head throbs at the thought of it, and he groans, rubs his temple. The party last night had been a mistake—terrible music, not enough hot people, and the alcohol was subpar, though that hadn’t stopped him from drinking all of it. But then he’d run into Selim in the hallways just now, who’d basically told him the same thing— _enough with these parties, you’re screwing everything up with your embarrassing behaviour_ —so Greed had obviously had to defend his choice in after-school activities.

“Dragging down the school’s reputation, my ass,” Greed says, aloud. Just because he’s Bradley’s son doesn’t mean he has to be some kind of goody-two-shoes like Selim who cares about things like student council president titles when the whole school’s a cesspit of mediocrity. It’s not even like Selim wins because he’s popular—more like nobody wants to vote against the principal’s son. Anyway, Greed’s hardly the most embarrassing of Bradley’s legacy; Gluttony skips class just to eat at the cafeteria, and only passes his classes because Lust lets him copy her homework. At least Greed’s making a name for himself, making connections.

 _wanna hang,_ he fires off on his phone, _im bored lets blow this joint._ The replies are less than satisfactory—Martel’s in dance class, which might be the only thing on the planet that girl loves, Roa and Dolcetto are stuck doing a lab assignment and even Bido’s gotta take the history test _or else my mom’ll kill me, sorry greed!!!_ He’s left staring down at the screen in disbelief, wondering when his life got so pathetically sad. When did he start relying on others, anyway? Well, whatever. There’s a whole, huge world waiting for him outside of these school gates, and he can be on the other side of town by next period.

Still. “Something’s gotta change,” Greed says, to himself, or to the stagnant spring air, when suddenly the door he’d just exited from bangs open, and he finds himself face to face with some kid he has to look down at in order to properly see. A mess of blond hair, gold eyes, startled. Corner of his mouth pulled into a frown.

“Well, what do we have here,” says Greed, raising his sunglasses. “Aren’t you a little young to be skipping class?”

The kid’s eyes narrow—ah, and there’s the anger. Some little part of Greed wishes that everything didn’t come so easy these days, that time didn’t slide past so smoothly it blurred into nothing at all. No resistance, no action, the calm stale and thick enough to drown in.

“Who are you calling _young_ , I’m a senior next year,” the kid says. Greed snickers. Yeah, right.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Greed says, gesturing at his full height, which doesn’t amount to much, and now the kid’s _really_ livid. Like fanning the flames, these days. No need even for a spark.

“Are you calling me short?” the guy yells, and _that_ draws a wince out of Greed, the memory of his headache suddenly back with a vengeance.

“You said it yourself, not me,” says Greed, then, “pipe down a bit, will you,” which might’ve been a mistake, because the guy just keeps talking, louder.

“Who the heck are you, anyway?” he says, and Greed smiles, thinly.

“Name’s Greed,” he says. Drops the sunglasses back down over his face. “Pleased to meet ya.”

“That’s the weirdest fucking name I’ve ever heard,” the kid says.

“Watch it, shorty,” Greed snaps, and the other kid just holds his ground, folds his arms over his chest, glares at him from where he’s still standing in the doorway. Neither of them have made an attempt to move. It’s almost summer. The heat is languid. Greed loses interest with all the grace of a candle flame burning out.

“Just get out of here already,” Greed says, rubbing a hand over his face, turning away. “Get away while you can, this school’s like a freakin’ abyss of boredom.”

“Tell me about it,” the kid agrees, to his surprise. He hitches his bag higher over his shoulder, stares down at his hands, palms open. “I keep feeling restless. Like I’m meant for more.”

Greed lets out a laugh, a little hysterical. Is this a civil conversation they’re having? “Welcome to the goddamn club, kid,” he says, clapping his hands together with a bang. “Everything in this school’s going to dust. It’s the same thing day after day, lining us all up in neat rows and cycling us through the classrooms and expecting us to give a damn. It’s almost a shame, you know, how much this town could hold, how much more things could be—” he bares his teeth, in a grin, or a grimace “—how much life these people’ve got to give.” And wouldn’t that be interesting. Wouldn’t that be _more._

“So why don’t you do something about it?” The kid’s gaze slants towards him. The way he says it is matter-of-fact, like there’s no other truth to the situation, but there’s something in his eyes that’s unimpressed. Something that pricks into the back of Greed’s neck like an itch, and sinks its claws in. A challenge. “Sure beats you just standing here and whining about it all day.”

And hell if Greed’s gonna take this kinda talk from such small fry, but something’s rekindling within him now, gears grinding as though waiting to be set into motion, ready for movement. Like something ancient and worldly inside of him is unfurling. Something that’s been lying dormant for a while now, lulled into sleep, but now that it’s waking up it’s like seeing the world through clearer lenses, sharper, everything in more focus. Greed inhales through his nose, breathes an appreciative hum, and looks around him once more. The white paved walkways glittering in the sun, the blades of grass shivering in the wind, the windows of the school reflecting his own silhouette. And all this, he thinks, all this could be _his._

A challenge, huh.

“Anyways, do you mind getting out of the way, ’cause I’ve got places to go,” the shrimp says, shouldering past him. And Greed would turn to say something, or watch him go, but when the door slams shut something catches his eye—a poster, plastered above the knob. It’s bright yellow but simple, a picture of some guy with loose black hair over his eyes and something like a shadow behind him. His smile’s charming enough, but his gaze holds a surprising level of seriousness. Responsibility, perhaps. The only thing the poster says are three words, _FOR THE PEOPLE_ , big and black and bold under the letters of the guy’s name.

“The people, huh,” says Greed, to himself, or maybe to the thing inside of him. His headache is gone, and he stretches his jaw into a smile, wide enough to hurt. Snaps his teeth. So some new guy’s running against his dear kid brother and actually thinks he’s got a chance. A lost cause for sure, but there’s something to be said about the slogan, something about his eyes. It’s certainly new, if nothing else, and for the first time in a damn long time, Greed is interested.

“And to think I’d almost given up on this godforsaken school,” Greed says. On the other side of the door, a passing-by teacher thinks she hears something, voices outside, but he’s long gone by the time she peeks out the window.

“Hmm,” says Ms. Hawkeye—perhaps it was just the wind. Still, her practiced ears know better, but she lets it go as she hoists the pile of books she’s carrying higher in her arms, and continues on her way back to class.

\--

When the hands of the clock finally announce five PM, Alphonse lets out a sigh and shuts his book, climbs to his feet from where he’s been sitting on the floor. His legs are cramped from staying in one position for too long, and he winces as he stretches them out, slides the book back onto the shelf. The school library’s almost empty at this hour, but there are still a few stragglers lounging by the desktop computers, and Alphonse makes his way towards them, rubbing at the crick in his neck.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt,” he says, “but the library’s closing up.” He smiles at them, but when the moment drags on, it freezes on his face, awkward. There’s two of them, one with long spiked hair, scowling up at him, and the other a tall girl unimpressedly tapping her long black nails against the tabletop.

“Yeah, what’re you gonna do about it,” the first one says, but the girl’s placing a hand on their arm, placating. Alphonse’s still standing there, stuck in his confused smile.

“Don’t worry about us,” the girl says, voice lower than Alphonse would’ve predicted, surer. “We’ll get out of your hair.” A smile in return, but there’s something patronizing about it, uninterested. “Come on, Envy, let’s get out of here.” Alphonse is left bemused as they leave, and it takes him a moment to snap out of it, push in their chairs for them, shut off the computers.

He finds Sheska in the young adult fiction section, surrounded by a pile of books and utterly engrossed in the one she’s reading, and he can’t help but smile, just a little. When he raps gently against the shelf to let her know he’s there, she jumps and drops her book.

“Oh, hey there, Alphonse,” Sheska says, hastily picking up the books she’s left lying on the floor. “Is it closing time, already? Wow, look at that. Time just flies when you’re having fun—I mean, when you’re working hard, isn’t that right.” She chuckles, a little nervous, a little sheepish.

“It sure does,” Alphonse says, and he joins her in clearing the aisle. He’d started volunteering at the school library because he’d thought Sheska could use the help, maintaining all the books and rowdy teenagers all by herself, but it’s also provided a respite lately, amidst everything else. There’s an unspoken agreement between him and Sheska that when work in the library gets slow they’ll look the other way if either of them picks up a book to read. With the stress of increasing homework and upcoming exams and club projects, Alphonse thinks it’s nice to just find a quiet spot sometimes and lose himself in a book, forget about everything else.

“Thanks for today, Alphonse,” Sheska calls out to him as she’s locking up the library doors, and Alphonse smiles, waves back at her on his way down the school hall. The school itself is closing soon for the day, too, corridors empty with the last echoes of after-school club activities and the clanging of locker doors. Half the lights are shut off, to conserve energy, and Alphonse is making his way to the exit, walking towards the length of his own shadow stretched out before him as he checks the messages on his phone.

 _are u almost done yet_ , Ed had sent him half an hour ago, _im boredddd_ , along with a blurry snapchat of a squirrel he’d seen on the way home from school that says _OH MY FUCKGN GOD IT BIT ME._ Al’s stifling a laugh at that one. There’s a message from Winry, too, about how she’s making apple pie for dinner tonight, but what she says next— _btw your ANNOYING NUISANCE of a brother is seriously having a skipping problem you should talk to him about it_ —brings a frown to his face. It’s probably English class again, or maybe even political science, just because Ed always talks about how much he hates the teacher, Mr. Mustang. And Ed’s old enough to make his own dumb decisions, but it’s almost finals season and his blowout with Granny over his last report card had been something Alphonse’d rather not see again and _dang it_ , Alphonse doesn’t need to be worrying about his brother’s self-sabotaging problems—

He’s still thinking about it when he turns the corner of the hallway, and so doesn’t see the figure he plows into with all the force of his frustration. The next thing he knows, the floor is cold and unforgiving against the small of his back and his head is ringing—or maybe that’s just the shrieks of the thing he’d walked into. The person. The girl.

“Ow,” says Alphonse, intelligently, and then he sits up, blinks against the stars in his eyes. Rubs the back of his head. Then: “Are you alright?”

“No, I’m not,” the girl yelps, and maybe Alphonse’s brain hasn’t recovered yet from the fall, because there’s no way she looks old enough to be in high school. Her eyes are narrowed in outrage and her dark hair’s twisted up into braided buns and—there’s a tiny _cat_ on her shoulder, spotted with black and hissing at him. Kind of cute, but kind of intimidating, too. The girl’s mouth is moving, which is when Alphonse realizes she’s still talking, and that he ought to listen.

“—are you even listening to what I’m saying,” she says, and Alphonse squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to clear the dizziness, reopens them. Clambers to his feet and holds out a hand.

“Yeah, I am, I’m sorry,” Alphonse says, “I wasn’t looking where I was going, that was my fault, sorry. Are you alright?” And the girl looks like she has more to say but stops for some reason, squints up suspiciously from the floor. For a moment Alphonse thinks she’s going to hit him, but then she takes his hand, dusts off her skirts. A uniform dress, Alphonse realizes, from the nearby junior high, and he wonders what she’s doing here.

“Are you waiting for an older sibling?” Alphonse asks, and then he sees the papers scattered all over the floor, the ones he’d presumably knocked out of her hands. “Oh, gee, I’m sorry, here, let me get those for you—” He bends to a knee, and maybe that was a mistake because his head’s gone woozy again—he hasn’t quite recovered yet, still—and the other girl starts shouting again, _no wait, stop_ , which doesn’t really help. In any case, he’s already picked up the nearest sheet of paper and he stares down at it, confused. It’s one of the posters he’s seen put up all over the walls of the school, for the upcoming student council president election, the one for the current president, Selim. Now that he looks at them, he can see that the other papers are all election posters as well.

“What are you doing with these?” Alphonse says, bewildered, and he looks up to catch an expression of utter guilt on the girl’s face. Then he sees—on the wall, where the girl had been standing when he’d knocked into her—another presidential campaign poster, this one for the new transfer student, half-torn off the wall. The top half is left hanging down over the part that’s still taped to the wall, covering the student’s face, leaving only his smile exposed.

“None of your business,” the girl says, snatching away the poster he’s still holding in his hand. “Nothing at all.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” says a new voice, light and cheerful, and Alphonse almost has a heart attack. Turns to see a strangely familiar face, some guy walking towards them, a girl by his side, the two of them unfolding from the shadows—how long have they been there? Then the guy smiles, and it matches the one on the wall. Oh, crap.

“Uh,” says Alphonse, headache starting to pound in earnest, but none of them are interested in him. The first girl’s glaring daggers at the new guy, who’s still smiling beatifically at no one in particular. Wordlessly, the new girl slinks away from her companion’s side, smooths out the poster hanging limply from the wall until it’s stuck back on, secure.

The cat on the little girl’s shoulder honest-to-god growls.

“You’ve got quite a collection there,” the guy says, nodding at the pile of posters in the young girl’s arms. “I can’t help but notice, though, that you’ve been taking down every one of them except for a single, certain candidate’s posters. Is there a reason for that?”

The girl hesitates, eyes darting around, as though searching for escape. The other girl, the one half-hidden, shifting, under the hood of her jacket—against uniform regulations, but there’s no teachers around anyhow—tightens her mouth into a grim line. The guy just waits, bobs forward, then backwards on the balls of his feet, and there’s something about the way he holds himself, lightly, gracefully, that makes Alphonse think there’s more to him that meets the eye.

“My brother,” the little girl says at last. “He’s running, and he might have a good chance at it this year, too. It’ll be his last chance, you know—and he’s got some good ideas, really, he’d be good for this school—”

The guy settles back down to his heels, crouches down so that he’s at her eye level. “I think I’ve got some good ideas for this school, too,” he says, and it’s not snide or cocky, but matter-of-fact, honest. Then his gaze cuts sideways towards her, sharp. “You must be a smart kid, to be able to sneak into the school like this. And to recognize the strongest competitor.” He winks, and it’s almost conspiratorial. “Maybe we’d make a stronger team if we worked together, hmm?”

“Ah,” interrupts the other girl, the one who’s shrugged off half her hood, so that the side of her face can be seen, her eyes. She’s frowning.

The guy waves his hand at her. “It’s okay, Lan Fan.” He turns back to the little girl, who now looks just as confused as Alphonse is. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Mei,” she says, and her voice is strong with pride—“Mei Chang.”

The guy straightens up, nods his head. “All right then. And what about yours?”

Silence. Alphonse stands there nursing his headache, wondering if he’s intruding on private matters and if he should leave when suddenly he realizes that everyone’s looking at him. “What, me?” he says, a little louder and more nervous than he intends. “Uh, I’m Alphonse.”

The guy turns to him then, bearing the full force of his smile. “It’s very nice to meet you, Alphonse Elric,” he says, and Al starts, because he hadn’t told him his last name. “I’m Ling Yao, soon-to-be president of the student council, and I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while now, actually. You’re the head of the science club, aren’t you? And the debate club? We’ll have a lot to discuss, don’t you think, about the future of matters in our school.” It isn’t a question.

“Well, wow,” is what Alphonse says before his brain catches up to his mouth. Still fuzzy. “I mean, yeah, of course. I’d definitely be interested with talking with you about that.” His phone buzzes in his pocket, then, reminding him that he has somewhere to be. “I’ve gotta go, though, for now—it’s almost time for dinner—”

“Excellent,” Ling says breezily, cutting him off. “Dinner sounds like a great idea—why don’t we all go out together, for a chat? I know a place.”

“Wait, what?” Alphonse says, but Ling’s steering him to the school exits with a surprisingly strong grip, and Lan Fan’s on his other side, eyes hardened with purpose, as though daring him to say no. He’s left staring at Mei, who shrugs up at him helplessly as she walks with them, posters still clutched in her hand, though the cat on her shoulder is chewing on one, teeth ripping through some kid’s blankly smiling face. And then the doors are opening and they’re out, into the early twilight.

Al’s gearing up to shrug off Ling and say sorry, he’s really got to go, but when he opens his mouth he can taste fresh air, and suddenly the dull ache is cleared from his head, gone. So is the stiffness—the disuse of his limbs, the muscle cramps not only from sitting on the library floor but from caging himself at his desk all the time, burying himself in studying. It’s work, he knows, and it’s got to be done, but he’s been neglecting the rest of himself, the part of his body that needs to be up, moving, alive. He stretches an arm, curls his fingers, breathes. Closes his mouth into a smile.

Maybe Ling sees, and maybe he doesn’t, but he doesn’t skip a beat in his long-winded speech as they make their way towards the street, something about the changes he plans to make to this school, and Mei’s voice is chiming in, _yeah, you’d better if you wanna beat my brother, I want this place way improved by the time I have to go to school here!_ And it’s the easiest thing in the world for Alphonse to laugh, join in the conversation, follow them down the road and into the evening.

\--

The tea is cold. Lan Fan flags down a waiter, who takes the pot away for a refill. The place Ling’s chosen isn’t one Lan Fan particularly cares for, a small yet overpriced Xingese restaurant with all of the overdone decorations and none of the authenticity. Cheap imitation lanterns dangle from the ceiling, bathing their table in dim light, and tapestries bearing painted phrases that mean nothing at all hang on the walls, framed with dark, polished wood. But she knows Ling has his reasons, and in any case, the focus had been on the conversation, not the food. Now that the Amestrian boy and the little girl have gone, a calm quiet has descended upon the table, as they eat across from empty chairs. Lan Fan’s bowl of noodles sits unfinished, soup cooling under a thin layer of grease, but Ling’s slurping down his without any hint of modesty or restraint.

“Ah,” says Ling, setting down his bowl. “That was a delightful meal.”

“Was it?” says Lan Fan. She spins one of her plastic chopsticks in her fingers, restless. “The Amestrian boy didn’t eat anything. And the little girl looked like she wanted to tear out my throat the entire time.”

Ling lets out a laugh at that, the sound of it settling over their shoulders, comfortable. “She’s a charming one, isn’t she? And Alphonse said something about apple pie waiting for him at home, so I didn’t want to push him.” He yawns, stretching out his limbs obnoxiously far. “Though it was a shame that he missed out on all this wonderful food.”

Lan Fan slides her gaze over towards him as he picks up his napkin, humming to himself. The broth is underseasoned, the flavour is weak, and the noodles are store-bought, not hand-pulled. The sliced green onions are stale. The tea is cold. She knows Ling knows all this, just as well.

“I’m surprised you chose this place,” says Lan Fan, casual. She starts to raise her cup to her lips out of habit, but lowers it again when she remembers it’s empty. The waiter still hasn’t returned with their tea.

Ling just smiles down at his bowl, and there’s something soft to it. For some strange reason Lan Fan can’t tear her eyes away. “I figured you’d ask,” he says. “I know this doesn’t compare to anything we have back home, but it’s nice, isn’t it, to find something familiar?”

 _Even if it’s fake?_ Lan Fan wonders, but she knows better than to voice her thought aloud. At any rate Ling can probably sense her dissatisfaction, and he looks like he wants to say something more when the door to the restaurant bangs open. The restaurant’s almost empty at this hour, so Ling and Lan Fan are the only ones to turn their heads, stare at the guy with round-edged sunglasses and a smug grin sauntering towards them.

“So you’re the kid who thinks he can take down my little bro,” the guy says, and there are more of them, filtering in through the door after their leader, dressed in muddied colours and beat-up leather and forming a circle around their table. He doesn’t even look at Lan Fan; instead, he’s focused entirely on Ling, who’s wiping his mouth with his napkin, unperturbed. “The new kid, right? What’s your name—Ling?”

“That would be me,” says Ling, agreeable as can be, and he lifts his hand in a polite wave. “Ling Yao, pleased to make your acquaintance. And who might you be?”

The other guy laughs. “Oh, this is _good_ ,” he says, and Lan Fan doesn’t appreciate his tone. Starts eyeing his companions’ pockets, checking for concealed weapons. If they’re looking for a fight, they’ll get one—her nerves are coiled tight, wound up like a spring. But though the newcomers’ faces are hardened, though the tension is thick, Lan Fan doesn’t sense any hostility. Their palms are open, or shoved into pockets, not curled into fists, so she decides to hold back for now, and wait to see how this plays out.

“Is there a problem?” Ling says, and none but Lan Fan’s trained eye would be able to catch the way his grip tightens slightly on the paper napkin still held in his hands.

“A problem?” repeats the stranger, and he raises a leg to place a foot on the seat of one of their table’s empty chairs, braces an elbow on his knee. Leans in close, all the way forward into Ling’s space, corner of his mouth pulled up in delight. “Are you kidding me? This is the best thing I’ve seen all _year_. The name’s Greed, kid, and let me tell you right now, you’re gonna need help if you wanna succeed in your little scheme of yours.” He pauses, letting his implications sink in. “Inside help.”

Lan Fan watches as Ling’s grip on his napkin loosens, imperceptibly. His smile hasn’t changed at all, but something’s lessened in the atmosphere, lightened, though Greed and his gang are still poised as though on some verge of attack.

“Why are you working against your own brother?” Lan Fan says, and Greed’s gaze snaps towards her, as though seeing her for the first time, sizing her up. She ignores the weight of his stare.

“Why the hell not?” Greed says. Lan Fan shoots Ling a look, like, _is this guy for real right now?_ Ling doesn’t laugh aloud, but his smile is almost amused now. Greed catches it, and something tightens in his mouth, gaining an edge.

“Yeah, yeah,” Greed says, and he’s straightening up, leaning back, pushing his sunglasses higher up on his nose. “I love my dear family forever and kumbayah and all that shit, and dear little Selim, his heart’s in the right place, if you can call dominating political spaces using intimidation and corruption from a hell of an early age ‘in the right place,’ but to spare you the messy details, I really don’t give a crap. I don’t care about any of that. What I care about is that waking up every day to the same old thing is gonna be the death of me. What I care about is making changes to this place. Making it my own. How about that?” When he smiles again Lan Fan thinks _danger._ Tightens her fist under the table. “For the people, isn’t that right?”

Ling looks like he’s considering it. Lan Fan makes a noise, a slight hum in the bottom of her throat, cautionary, nothing else, and he turns to her, meets her eyes. She already knows it’s a lost cause—Greed’s proposition is too valuable to be turned down, and Ling’s ambition too strong. But that doesn’t mean she has to like it.

“Why me?” Ling says, matter-of-fact. “Why don’t you just run for president yourself? If you’re offering to work with me, then it can’t be without conditions.”

Greed slaps his knee. “Now we’re talking! Y’know, I considered that too, just screwing everything else and going for the throne myself. But at the end of the line, this is family we’re talking about.” He makes a face. “And my family—much as we disagree on petty things like lifestyle choices and sense of style—they have expectations for me. And let’s just say that if I made my so-called bout of teenage rebellion too public, it wouldn’t be pretty.” He pauses, just slightly, but enough for Lan Fan to catch. “Better to lay low and take ’em out from the outside in.”

“Fair enough,” says Ling, “but you could have picked any of the other candidates. Why are you coming to me, specifically?”

The strange hesitation is gone. “Your poster was the first one I saw, kiddo,” Greed says with a bark of laughter. Lan Fan narrows her eyes. “Anyway, my terms. If I’m going to be on your campaign team, I don’t need any of the publicity, but I want the power. Decision making, management, all of it.”

“Sorry,” Ling says, almost sweetly. “No can do.”

Just like that, everything’s suddenly on edge again. “I don’t think you understand the situation, kid,” Greed says, and his crew nods in agreement; Lan Fan had almost forgotten they were there. She takes quick inventory. There’s four of them besides Greed. One who blows a strand of blond hair out of her face when she catches Lan Fan looking at her, revealing tattoos spiking up her right cheek, and one who can’t be more than a freshman, face riddled with acne and slouching in his hoodie. A towering hulk who looks much older than the rest of them, if his facial hair is any indicator, and a short teen with teeth bared in something almost like excitement, eyes darting back and forth. They make a ragtag team, and Lan Fan doesn’t doubt for a second that they’re dangerous. But it doesn’t pay to underestimate the two of them, she thinks, curling her fingers under her table. Not at all.

“No, Greed,” says Ling. It’d be almost disarming, the sudden seriousness his tone’s adopted in juxtaposition to the natural sprawl of his posture, chin tucked into his palm, elbow propped up on the table, except for the fact that Lan Fan’s seen it so many times before. All the times before. “I think you’re the one who isn’t understanding the situation here. I’m Ling Yao, and I’m the one running for student council president next year. I’m the one looking to bear the responsibility of the student body, of the people. That being said, you’d be invaluable to my campaign, and I’m sure you’re aware of your own power. I think we’d make a good team. You and I—I think we can make something work.”

“That’s a shame,” says Greed. But his tone isn’t dismissive—it’s almost thoughtful. His eyes are narrowed in appraisal, looking them up and down, as though in reevaluation. As though he likes what he sees.

Ling allows a smile, then, a real one, edge of his mouth curving up, and it makes Lan Fan think of a hook. Line and sinker. “That is,” Ling says, slow and deliberate, “if you’re still interested,” and she can practically hear the trap snapping shut, as Greed leans ever so minutely over the table, flashes his teeth.

“I think you’re in need some more tea,” he says, “because we’re gonna be here all night, if I’m right in thinking we have a lot to talk about.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” says Ling. He looks almost civil. Lan Fan can practically taste the hunger in the air; the thing is, she isn’t sure which of them it belongs to.

As if on cue, the waiter finally returns with their tea, casting a wary glance at their new guests. “Oh, thank you,” Ling says, taking the pot. “And could you give us the bill, please? The tab’s on him.” He nods his head towards Greed, who stops smiling for the first time, finally.

“Wait, what,” says Greed.

“Pleased to do business with you,” Ling says, cheerful as ever, and he takes the teapot, starts refilling Lan Fan’s empty cup, steam pooling over the rim. She taps her knuckles against the tabletop, once, twice, as a thank-you. When she chances a sip, the tea is warm, perfectly so, and it strikes her then, an infusion of taste on her tongue, a memory older than home. And she can find it in herself to be grateful; can finally understand what Ling had meant, in seeking something familiar, anything at all. When she looks up, though, she’s startled to see that Ling’s looking right at her, and it’s not often that she finds his gaze unreadable. This time it hits her like a kick to the gut, or like something else, harder to deal with—an intimacy they both bear in their bones—so she looks away, across the table, only to find that Greed is watching them too, sunglasses raised, eyes bared at last.

“Hey, Greed,” says Ling innocently. “Don’t you think it’s a bit much to wear sunglasses at night?”

There’s an impressive silence. It’s broken, surprisingly, by the blond girl standing by Lan Fan, who bursts into loud snickers. Greed looks almost affronted. Lan Fan hasn’t the slightest idea of what they’ve gotten themselves into, but with Ling’s easy grin, Greed incredulously squinting at the small numbers printed on their bill, she can almost find it in herself to trust in what the future has in store. She allows herself a smile, takes another sip of her tea. Outside, stars spinning in the sky, on and on.

\--

The window’s open, and a dragonfly is hovering around the edge of the sill, as though deciding whether or not to come in. Ed watches it, from where he’s slumped down over his desk, mindlessly twirling his pen in his fingers. The wood of the table is cool against the side of his cheek, and he shifts, smothers a yawn in his palm. The dragonfly’s wings are threaded with blue, bright blue, and they twitch agitatedly, as the dragonfly zips up, down, back and forth over the sill, in the absence of a breeze.

 _Thwack._ Something drops down, onto Ed’s desk, dangerously close to his face. His essay, returned and passed back to him by one of the girls in his class. The girl moves on to the next person, and Ed makes no move to get up off his desk, instead rotating the package of paper so that he can see his mark. _C-_ , it reads in red. He hears the ringing of the bell as though from a distance, from the bottom of a murky river. There’s a shuffle of papers from the teacher at the front of the classroom, the scraping of chairs being pushed back as people around him burst into conversation, gathering up their books. When Ed lifts his head, remembers to look, the dragonfly is gone.

“Hey,” says Al, nudging him with his shoulder. “How’d you do on the essay?”

“Hm? Oh, fine,” says Ed. He scratches the back of his neck; he can see the A on Al’s paper peeking out from the inside of his bag. “Let’s go get lunch.”

He can feel Al’s gaze on him all the way out of the classroom and down the hallway, making their way to their shared locker, and Ed knows it’s coming. They’ll have to talk about this, whatever this is—Ed isn’t even sure of it, himself. These days the sleep comes easy; it’s the waking up that’s hard. He spins the locker combination—3, 10, 11—and the locker door swings open. Ed stares up, at the photographs taped to the inside—Ed and Al pored over books, at the arcade, in the skate park. Al on the first day of volunteering at the library. Ed in an uncomfortable suit on the day he’d won the regional science fair. The two of them with Winry at a coffee shop when suddenly she’d just _had_ to take a selfie with them. Him and Al and their father, their mother.

“Hey, Ed,” Al’s saying. “You there?”

“Yeah,” says Ed, shaking his head. He feels strange. Off-kilter, uncentered, and he’d be lying if he said he hasn’t been feeling this way for a while. Something doesn’t sit right with him, at the edge of his consciousness, the colours around him all bleeding together into a blur. Some days the wind rushes past and he feels it fly through him like a physical blow. Like he’s meant to be somewhere else. Anywhere else but here. “I’m fine.”

“Listen, Ed,” Al says as they start towards the cafeteria, and Ed braces himself for it—but what comes out of his mouth next isn’t what he’s been expecting. “I met with Dad again the other day.”

“What?” Ed says, screeching to a halt. Some freshman behind him in the hall bumps into his back, shoulders past him muttering something under their breath. He pays them no attention. “When was this?”

“Last week,” Alphonse says, and he doesn’t even look sorry, damn it.

“And you didn’t _tell me?_ ”

“You were out,” Alphonse says. He hesitates. “You’re always out, these days. Sometimes… Sometimes I don’t know if you’re not still out, even when you’re right here talking to me.”

“What the hell does that mean,” Ed says, and Al lets out a sigh.

“I think you know what I mean,” he says. Oh, here it is—what Ed’s been waiting for all along. “Winry says you spend more time at school outside of class than in it, and that teachers are beginning to crack down on you. And, Ed, you know—” He turns to face him, then, puts a hand on his shoulder, and he looks so serious Ed’s almost taken aback—“You’ve got to know I support you, all right? I don’t care whatever decision you make, as long as you know it’s what’s right for you, as long as you’ve thought it through. But you’ve wanted to go to university to study chemistry since forever—you’ve loved science forever, and now you’re not even showing up to the classes, and—” Al runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “I just think that whatever’s wrong, it isn’t school,” he says, slowly. “You’re just taking it out on the wrong thing, that’s all.”

All the bitter arguments Ed’s been saving up inside of him for this precise moment suddenly slide away. Alphonse, he supposes, tends to have that effect. “Nothing’s wrong,” he tries. Al stares him down. “Okay, fine. You’re right. It isn’t school.” It isn’t until he repeats it aloud that he realizes it to be true—he can manage his schoolwork for the most part, and he does still like most of the stuff he’s learning, and even the thought of Mr. Mustang can’t dampen the joy he feels from getting to blow up shit in the science lab. It’s more like—school and what it represents, just another one of the pieces slotting itself into the life that makes itself clearer and clearer to him with every passing day. The slow-stirred heat in the air. The sky empty of any movement; not even the flurry of wings in the distance. The pockmarked path he takes with Al and Winry to school every morning, then back every afternoon, then back the next morning. Back and forth. The dragonfly, beating its wings to a slow death on the edge of the windowsill.

“I don’t know what I want,” Ed says, “but the thought of this being all there is—it terrifies me.”

“What do you mean by _this?_ ” Al says. He looks so patient Ed wonders what deity he’d pleased in a past life, to be lucky enough to have his brother.

“You know,” Ed says, gesturing a hand around him vaguely.

“Life?” Al says, and there’s a thread of something fragile in his voice now, like it’s about to crack. “Is that what you mean, Ed? You don’t see the point in life anymore?” And it strikes Ed then that that’s panic in his voice, something like fear, something like the terror of a little brother who’s only just been keeping it together, and he hasn’t noticed until now.

“Shit, Al, _no_ , calm down, hey, that’s not what I meant.” Ed grabs his hand on his shoulder, thinks with a note of hysteria that maybe they shouldn’t be having this conversation in the middle of a school hallway. “I’m not that much of a lost cause, man.” He tries for a laugh. “It’s just—it’s just hard sometimes, okay? It’s almost summer. It’s almost the end of high school, really. I’m having trouble envisioning what comes next when I’ve spent all my life…” He shrugs, then, trying to come up with the words for it.

“When you’ve been wandering around aimlessly all your life,” Al says.

Ed punches his shoulder. “Hey! That’s uncalled for, man,” and to his relief it earns him a laugh, as Al bats his hand away.

“I think I understand what you’re getting at,” Al says. “And I think it’s a perfectly valid way to feel. I just don’t like you going off by yourself all the time—I think that only makes it worse, and you need someone to pull you out of it sometimes, you know? Someone to talk back at the thoughts in your head.” He hesitates. “You know I could always be that person for you, right? I’m always here.”

“What are you talking about?” Ed says. “Of course I know that. Of course you’re my person. You’re my person, man, you’re a person, I’m a person, we’re people.”

“Shut up,” Al says, but he’s laughing. “You’re not the only one who gets worn out, you know. I’ve missed you a lot lately.” He shrugs. “So when I bumped into Dad the other day I was pretty grateful for the company, actually.”

Oh, damn, he’s _good._ Not that Ed doesn’t know it—he’s had to grow up next to this force all his life. “Right,” he says weakly. “And what did Hohenheim have to say? Did he give you updates on the latest Parent Advisory Council meeting? Tell stories about his latest adventures abroad?”

“Are you still doing that thing where you refer to him by his name?” Al says, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “And for your information, he was pretty content to let me do most of the talking, actually. He wanted to know how we’re doing. Why he sees you around town sometimes when you’re supposed to be in class. When our final exams are, and if we’re ready for them.” He pauses then, and there’s a positively devilish glint in his eye. “Who we’re taking to the senior dance.”

Ed chokes on his own spit. “What the _fuck_ ,” he splutters, “what kind of a question is that—”

They’ve started walking again, somewhere along the way, and the entrance to the cafeteria opens up before them to an array of crowded tables, loud chatter and laughter reaching their ears. “I told him I’m not taking anyone,” Al says casually, “but that _you’re_ still up in the air about it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean,” Ed begins, but then he catches sight of someone waving to them from a table, blond hair and peach sundress spilling into his vision, and he’s aware of his sentence being stunned into silence. Al snickers from beside him, and he recovers back into himself. “What’s that supposed to _mean_ ,” he insists, but Al’s going on ahead without him, waving back.

“They arrive at last,” Paninya says when Ed finally makes his way over, takes a seat at the table. “What took you guys so long?”

“It was nothing,” Al says, “Ed just had some teacher trouble, that’s all,” and Ed bristles at the blatant lie, but the others have already latched onto it.

“Don’t tell me Mr. Mustang’s finally giving you the weeks of detention you deserve,” Winry says in that tone of hers, the one that spells suspicion but also unnecessary concern. “Well? How much trouble are you in?”

“It’s nothing like that,” Ed says, not quite looking her in the eye. “I haven’t seen him at all today. I’ll deal with him tomorrow.” He winces. “I’ll have his class first period.”

“Good luck with that,” Winry says. “I’m baking apple pie tomorrow, too—if you survive, that is.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Ed mutters. Winry just gives him a smile, one with her eyes closed and radiating danger, the sweet one that says _serves you right._ It’s not a very nice smile at all, Ed tells himself petulantly.

“Come on, guys,” Paninya says, slamming her hands down on the table. “There are more important things to discuss right now than how Mr. Mustang’s going to silently murder Ed and dispose of his body so he’ll never be found again, as fun as that is to imagine. The student council election’s in two weeks!”

“Since when did you care about student council politics,” Ed says, squinting at her.

“I talked with one of the contenders the other day,” Paninya says. “He agrees that there’s some shady stuff going down in this school, with regards to funding and allocation of resources. You know we haven’t upgraded our school computers in a literal decade, and school clubs and sports teams never have the money for new equipment and supplies, and yet the student council keeps holding fundraisers, like, all the time? Don’t you ever wonder about where all that money goes?”

“Not really,” Ed says, pulling his own paper bag lunch out of his backpack. Sandwich, milk carton— _very funny, Granny_ —and an apple rolling out over the table.

“Please,” Paninya says, shaking her head at him. “He’s gonna win by a landslide. Change’s coming to this school. Also, not that he needs it to help his case, but he’s really cute. Have I mentioned that?”

“Yes, you have,” Winry says.

“Ling _is_ pretty capable,” Alphonse agrees, nodding sagely.

“What the fuck,” Ed says. He narrows his eyes. “Is he that guy you’ve been hanging out with all the time?”

“He’s running for student council president, Ed,” Alphonse explains patiently. “Of course I have to work with him. He’s pretty cool, too, once you get to know him.”

“Hmm,” Ed says, taking a bite of his sandwich. “I’m not crazy about the new friends you’re making. Especially that little girl who’s always trailing after you—”

Al rolls his eyes. “God, Ed, just because she dropkicked you in the face the first time she met you doesn’t mean she’s a bad person—she thought you were a mugger sneaking up on her, it was an honest mistake anybody could have made—”

“What’s this I hear about a little girl kicking Ed’s ass, and how did I miss it?” Paninya demands.

Ed’s ears burn. “You heard _nothing_ ,” he says, and then, like they’ve summoned him, a shadow falls over their table.

“Alphonse,” says Ling Yao, bright and cheery, “just the person I was looking to see!” He sits himself down at their table like he belongs there.

Ed squints at him. He looks completely different from how he’s presented on his campaign posters, all regal and polished. Instead, his school tie is undone, his blazer draped over his shoulder, his hair a mess of ponytail. The only thing that’s the same, he thinks, is that infuriating smile, lips quirked up, mouth closed, hiding teeth.

“By all means,” Ed says, “make yourself at home here, sure, go on ahead.”

Al laughs. “Don’t mind my brother,” he says, “he’s in a bad mood,” but Ling’s eyes are already on him, appraising. Ed glares back.

“Thank you for that generous offer,” Ling says. “Edward Elric, right? I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Ed’s taken aback. “What?”

“Winner of the regional science fair championships three years in a row,” Ling says. A glint of teeth. He looks almost harmless. “I’ve seen your work. You’re a pretty smart guy, you know.”

Ed doesn’t know if it’s a compliment, or if it’s laden with some other kind of meaning, and he tries to come up with an intelligent-sounding response, but all he can think of at the moment is _your_ face _is a pretty smart guy_ , so he thinks it might be better if he just doesn’t say anything at all.

“Pretty smart guy,” Paninya snorts. “Did you hear that, Winry?”

“He _has_ done some incredible stuff, inside of the science lab,” Winry says. “Outside of it, though, it’s a different story. Like that time he got suspended for sneaking into the principal’s office when he thought it was empty, except they were actually holding a staff meeting in there.” She shakes her head, lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I guess it all depends on how you look at it.”

“I wasn’t _sneaking_ ,” Ed grumbles. “He’d confiscated my phone in the hallway and forgotten to give it back, so I was just going to retrieve it. I was just doing him a favour, you know, making it less work for him.”

“Sure,” Winry says, nodding, eyes wide, but she’s laughing, and Ed’s stomach twists itself in a strange knot. “That’s all you were going to do, _sure._ You absolutely weren’t going to booby-trap his desk or put thumbtacks on his chair or leave a little something to make his filing cabinet blow up in his face."

“I’m wounded at these accusations,” Ed says, putting a hand on his chest. “Anyway, even if I were hypothetically going to do something like that, it wouldn’t be entirely unjustified, is all I’m saying. Have you _seen_ the way he acts sometimes, around ‘problem students’ when there aren’t any adults watching—it’s positively cutthroat, I swear.”

“You know what, Ed,” Al says suddenly, like it’s just occurred to him, “you should join us in the campaign. We could do with your help. Didn’t you yourself say Selim’s—and I quote—‘a snotnosed little kid with something wrong about him—’”

“So you’re a _we_ now, are you? Anyway, I know what you’re doing,” Ed accuses. “You’re trying to—I don’t know—get _direction_ in my life again or some other equally bullshit type of mission—”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Al says.

“I didn’t realize our beliefs aligned quite so nicely,” Ling says. Ed’s almost forgotten he’s still there, watching him closely. “Maybe we should talk some more about this.” He takes a bite of an apple. Wait, where’d he get that from?

“Hey, that’s mine,” Ed says, reaching out, when suddenly a hand is over his, forcing it back down to the table. Ed jerks back. There’s a girl sitting at their table, next to Ling, hood over her hair, scowling at him, and he hadn’t noticed her at all.

“It’s quite delicious,” Ling agrees, taking another bite. “Anyway, since we’re all on the same side now, I think it’s best to let you know that I invited the rest of our team to join us any minute now.”

“Hold on a minute,” says Ed, “what _team_ —”

“Well, well, well,” comes a voice, and Ed’s craning his neck to look up at jagged hair, round-edged sunglasses and a vaguely familiar smirk. “If it isn’t the shrimp.”

“Tell me this isn’t happening,” Ed says, covering his face with his palm.

“I wasn’t aware that you all already knew each other,” Ling says, unfazed. “This sure makes everything a lot easier, though.”

There’s five of them, and there aren’t enough chairs at the table to fit them all, but Greed slings a chair over from the next table and seats himself down anyway, chair legs scraping loudly against the cafeteria floor. The rest assemble around as though to cage them in, a bunch of kids dressed up in leather and metal. One of them, with hair chopped short and a tattoo carving up the side of her face, blows a kiss at Alphonse, who turns bright red, and Ed’s struggling between feeling affronted on Al’s behalf or impressed.

“So we’re a team now, huh,” says Greed, but the twist of his mouth says something else, and Ed doesn’t like it one bit. A smile like that—it reads _possessive_ ; it means danger.

“I don’t even know who any of you fucking people _are_ ,” Ed says helplessly, and Winry and Paninya crack up on the other side of the table, though at least Al’s making a valiant effort to compose himself.

Ling grins, then, and it’s different from all the ones before. This one’s hungry. He sets his finished apple core on the table, leans forward, and says, “Oh, but you will.”

Ed looks around at them all, Paninya surreptitiously edging her chair closer to Ling’s, the silent hooded girl sharpening what seems to be a pocket knife under the table, Greed and his gang lounging around them like sharks smelling blood in the water. Winry, meeting his gaze, shrugging her shoulders at him, eyes bright— _sounds like fun._ Alphonse, the line of his school tie ramrod straight, a smile tugging at his face, nodding his head at him— _come on, brother, I’ve been waiting for you._ Ed wonders what on earth any of them has in common with each other. He thinks, Ling’s certainly right—he will. Soon enough, he will.

“Well?” Ling says. “What do you think?” And Ed finally slumps down in his chair, allows himself to relax, to go with the flow and see where it takes him.

“I’m all ears,” Ed says, and a wind seems to thread its way through the cafeteria, around their table, ruffling Ling’s collar, Winry’s dress, the hairs on the back of Ed’s neck. Straightening out all of their edges, coming together. He shivers. For a moment it’s cold and it’s clear and he can feel it on his skin, pristine, every cell awakening and set alight, self-aware in a sudden sharpness—another world, another time, he could almost reach—he could almost break through—

“Excellent,” Ling says. “We’ve got quite a lot of work to do.”

The wind dies down, and Ed lets it go. Something else in him, flickering, like the faint stirrings of interest. A fire he’s been looking for all this time, and yet, it’s found him first. He looks at them again. That’s just it, isn’t it? In the end, they found him first. The beckon of summer has dulled to a distant roar in his ears. Sunlight crackles around them all, setting their ring aglow, and the sight almost reminds him of something else. Something he dreamed about the other night. Points on a map leading back to each other, strung with light. A circle, complete.

“Let’s get started, then,” Ed says, and they meet him stride for stride, every step of the way.

**Author's Note:**

> _with my lightning bolts a glowin'_   
>  _i can see where i am goin'—_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>    
>  _you better look out below_


End file.
